


Lousy Smarch Weather

by crookedcig



Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Damien is a flower demon, Inspired By Tumblr, M/M, flirting with flowers, this is pure ridiculousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 11:43:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11668458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedcig/pseuds/crookedcig
Summary: After all this time talking about cryptids, when Robert Small finally meets something not-quite-human, he's not entirely prepared.





	Lousy Smarch Weather

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AndthereIwas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndthereIwas/gifts).



> I was inspired by a Tumblr ask with the idea of Damien being a flower demon instead of a vampire, and it all went downhill from there. http://radio-silents.tumblr.com/post/163567478864/okay-so-idea-i-know-that-everyone-says-that
> 
> I'm definitely planning on building more here, and apologies for the roughness of this...I'm rusty and beta-less at the moment. And also reading way more about flower meanings and diving back into 13-year-old me's notes about demons for the first time in over a decade.
> 
> There are four specific flowers mentioned, and while each have a variety of meanings here's the ones I was shooting for:  
> Red Anemone: Dying or forsaken love  
> Pink Aster: Patience and wishing things were different  
> White Heather: Luck or protection  
> Red (Cardinal) Gladiolus: Faithfulness, sincerity, passionate love, integrity

“So. This sure is a thing.” It wasn’t like he’d really expected it to…work. Not really. Sure, it was easy to talk a big game, to draw demon traps on his walls and carry knives and talk about Bigfoot probably more than he should, he’d never actually expected any of this shit to be necessary. Hoped, maybe. But even the staunchest conspiracy theorist often found themselves agog when confronted with actual proof that the world was what they thought. Maybe there were stages of conspiracy theory actuality, like grief. Surprise, disbelief, panic, and finally smug self righteousness. That sounded about right. But he could investigate that more later, because right now Damien Bloodmarch was standing right outside his door, staring down at the line of salt across the threshold and looking very much like a kicked puppy. His eyes were black. And not normal black, but all the way around black, no whites at all, which somehow only made the sense of disappointment and sorrow rolling off him worse, gave a palpable stink to it. Fuck, Robert was going to have to drink a lot to eradicate the way he was feeling right now, a terrible combination of guilt and fear that burbled like acid reflux in his belly.

“I’ll leave you to the rest of your evening, then.” It wasn’t like Damien ever spoke casually, but somehow this was stiffer than usual. And wasn’t that something, that Robert could tell the difference? The set of his shoulders was off, his long fingers clenched tight into fists, and the hesitant smile that had been so charming just a few minutes ago when Robert had asked for help deciphering some Victorian scrawl in a book about vampires was gone. Little things that took Damien from relaxed and weird to every joke about stiff upper lip in every shitty period piece Robert had spent most of his life avoiding. Too wrapped up in the the observations, cataloging them, Robert stood there staring dumbly for a few moments; it was almost too late when he realized that Damien was turning and walking away, toes catching on the sidewalk.

“Wait!” Not until he actually breeched the safety of his home and reached out, hand light as he could manage on Damien’s shoulder, did the other man pause. “C’mon. There’s gotta be a story about that, right? I’ll make us a drink, you can tell it.”

To say that Robert Small was not the sort of man that liked indulgent metaphors would be a baldfaced lie. You didn’t get that deep into movies and not appreciate a good visual. And when Damien offered him a tentative smile, the only word that came to mind was ‘bloom.’ Something as simple as an offer to come inside for a drink made him open up and turn towards Robert like he had the sun coming out of his mouth and that was a pretty heady feeling.

“Yeah, just lemme…” Shifting quickly, Robert used his scuffed boot to disrupt the thick line of salt he’d put across his doorway that morning without thinking, refreshing the protection he’d never really thought he’d need, especially not from his neighbor. Well, not this neighbor. Moments later they were both inside and Damien was glancing around like he was measuring for drapes. Not that he was judging, or planning on moving in or anything. It was more instinctual than that, an innate need to beautify, and it made Robert feel a little bit self conscious about his decorating choices (lack thereof) for the first time in a very long time. “I have whiskey and a really terrible Shiraz that’s probably skunked. And, you know…water.” At least he had the good graces to feel sheepish, when confronted with his own shortcomings as a host. That was good, right?

“Do you have a kettle?” The question caught him by surprise, but a moment later Damien was fishing something out of what Robert could only assume was pocket hidden in his cloak. Coat. Cape. Outerwear, whatever it was. It proved to be a few teabags of something that smelled like ginger and lemon and heat, and he struggled mightily not to find that charming. Failed, of course.

“Sure.” Grabbing a couple of books off the couch, shuffling loose stacks of paper and a few DVDs out of the way, he made space for Damien to sit. Probably should have done that before he invited the cute man into his house, right? Whatever, the whole night was not going the way he’d planned. A quick trip to the kitchen had water boiling in a slightly dusty kettle, but he was back soon enough, leaning against the half wall that separated the spaces and watching Damien inspect his bookshelves. He’d taken his cape (it was a cape, right?) off and draped it over the back of a chair, which Robert had hoped would somehow make him look less attractive, but no such luck. Stiff white cotton was always begging to be wrinkled in fun ways.

“So. I'm guessing demon?” Damien flinched at that, and Robert immediately regretted it. Silence stretched between them, warm and uncanny like saltwater taffy on a machine, and he cleared his throat. “I guess that’s rude to ask, huh? I’ve always been pretty good at sticking my foot in my mouth.” That, at least, earned him a shy glance from behind dark hair. “This is new for me. Honestly I figured the first time I met something that wasn’t quite human it would involve a lot more yelling and hitting, so I’m off my game.” Humor, especially the self deprecating kind, usually went better for him anyway, and Damien seemed to be a little less uncomfortable, so he was going to count that as a win.

They were both saved by the whistle of the kettle, and Robert grabbed the tea bags from the cluttered coffee table before making a beeline for the kitchen, finding momentary safety in the routine of making tea. God, this man. This demon? Shit. Did it matter? Regardless, he was adorable, carrying tea around in secret pockets in his century old fashion statement. Not that Robert had a lot of room to talk, with his greaser jacket.

When he finally returned to the couch, Robert had a water glass that was a third full of whiskey in one hand and a mug of tea in the other. ‘I don’t give a Hufflefuck’ was full of hot water and steam and the tea smelled even better now, but he did briefly wonder if he should have gone on the hunt for a mug that hadn’t been stolen from an office lunch room cabinet to spite a coworker. Probably bad form to give your hot demon neighbor tea in a purloined mug.

“Thank you.” Damien’s smile was a little wider, less tentative this time. “And it’s not rude to ask. I simply haven’t had this conversation in a very long time. Most people that know my nature wanted me because of it, rather than finding it a surprise.” As Damien took up the mug, Robert was pleased to see his eyes crinkled at the text on it. “My son enjoyed those books, when he was younger. I read the first two or three to him. The accents made him laugh.” Fun didn’t sound like the sort of thing Lucien would find fun, but Robert had been wrong on the subject of the Bloodmarch family a lot, it seemed.

“I’ve got some questions for you.”

“I suspect you have many.”

“Yeah, but I invited you in for a drink, not an interrogation.”

“It was a drink and a story.” Damien finally took a sip of his tea and blinked hard, coughing softly and shooting a bemused glance Robert’s direction.

“In my defense, you never said you didn’t want whiskey in your tea.” He could feel a grin curling his mouth and Damien actually laughed, a little bubbling noise that he tried to hide behind his hand. Another moment of silence, but this one was more comfortable than before. They both drank, they both sat, and finally Damien spoke again.

“It was Mary.”

“Mary?”

“She’s the one that summoned me here.”

“Mary.”

“I think she was trying to annoy Joseph.”

“Mary.” When he continued to just repeat the word stupidly, Damien paused and blinked at Robert over the top of the mug, and he suddenly wondered if the soft red was actually eyeshadow as he assumed, or something else entirely.

“Do you need more time to process that?” Damien’s smile had gone sly and knowing, a little teasing.

“No, honestly I think about ninety percent of what Mary does is in an attempt to annoy Joseph, I’m more pissed that I’ve bought her enough wine to fill the lake and she never told me she summoned a demon. It’s like she doesn’t even know me.” Shaking his head, Robert leaned back and propped his elbow on the arm of the sofa, his cheek on his fist. “So Mary summoned you.”

“They were newly married. She was at home by herself quite a lot, and the trappings of impending motherhood and being Joseph’s wife were grating.” A shared look at that. Those trappings had been grating for a long time, and never stopped. Robert had never understood their marriage, but it wasn’t his job to understand. “She took up imitating witchcraft, I believe mostly because she enjoyed making him clean up the wax out of the carpet.”

“Yeah, that sounds like her. Vicious bitch.” Though his words were hard, Robert’s tone was fond, and he lifted his glass into the air as if to toast her even in her absence.

“It was an accident, as far as I could tell. He’d bought her a bouquet, trying to smooth over whatever the latest fight was about, she threw it in the middle of a partly correct summoning circle she’d drawn in permanent marker on the duvet, and moments later I arrived.” A little flourish of his hand, painted nails catching Robert’s attention, and Damien smiled. “If I remember correctly, there were red [anemone](http://www.flowermeaning.com/anemone-flower-meaning/), pink [aster](http://www.flowermeaning.com/aster-flower-meaning/), and white [heather](http://www.flowermeaning.com/heather-flower-meaning/). Not the wisest choice for a bouquet, but Joseph is no more inept with flowers than any other man.”

“Must’ve been some great flowers, for you to remember them that well.” Damien shot him a look that somehow made it very clear he’d said the wrong thing, for all that the expression wasn’t angry. It took him a minute to finally realize he was on the receiving end of a very gentle ‘I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed’ face and Robert damn near snorted whiskey once it hit him.

“Flowers can express a variety of emotions, Robert, far more succinctly than words can. You just need to know how to read them.” Damien took a delicate little sip of his tea, which had cooled enough now that really he could have gulped it. Not that Damien was the gulping type.

“And you…like flowers?”

“I _love_ flowers. I wish people loved flowers as much as I do.” Something wistful and wanting curled in Damien’s voice and Robert felt a correlating tug in his belly, something not nearly as refined or gentlemanly as Damien. Why’d he have to be cute, too? “I miss the years when people would make bouquets for me, lay out their intentions and requests in pretty colors and sweet smells.” Damien sighed softly, his eyes dreamy and far away and Robert suspected suddenly he was seeing something no one else had seen in a very long time. “Always so nice, to arrive to find something waiting, telling me exactly what they wanted. And I didn’t mind correcting their arrangements, when I had to. Not everyone is as exacting as I am when it comes to these things.” Glancing over, attention drawn apparently by Robert’s silence, Damien’s cheeks and the tips of his ears went pink and he hid as much of his face behind the mug as he could. “There’s not much need for a demon that does flower arrangements, these days.”

That brought up more questions than it answered, really. Several dozen of them, by Robert’s count, but something went buzzing in one of the little pockets in Damien’s coat (cloak? Robert was going to have to ask one day) and the slender man drew out his phone with a frown. Dark brows rocketed towards his hairline and he was on his feet an instant later, staring at damned thing like he was fairly convinced it was going to bite him.

“Let me guess…Little Luci’s in trouble?” Robert wasn’t sorry about the shitty nickname, not when Damien shot him an amused look that almost erased the worry that was clinging to his refined features.

“He was arrested trying to sell something that isn’t illegal, which I’m not entirely sure I understand. Can we…” Glancing down at Robert, looking wary and unsure, Damien cleared his throat. “I would love to discuss this further. Some other time?” Hope bloomed eternal, or something.

“Yeah. And I promise not to tell anyone my drunk best friend summoned you from hell, if you promise not to possess anybody.” The joke missed his target by a bit, but was close enough that Damien snorted softly, hiding it behind his hand. Turning his mug primly so it was in less danger of getting kicked off the coffee table, he swirled into his cloak (definitely a cloak) and paused at the door, only to prance back to Robert’s side. Just an instant of contact, a warm puff of sweet smelling breath against his skin, and Robert realized only when Damien was gone and his door softly shut that he’d been kissed on the cheek. Like they were courting or something ridiculous that definitely didn't make him go soft and hazy between his lungs.

It took him even longer to realize something felt off still, after Damien had left. Scratching absently at an itch on his cheek, Damien startled when a [bright red flower](https://www.google.com/search?q=gladiolus+cardinalis&rlz=1C1CHBF_enUS746US746&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjnu42MsLTVAhVJ1oMKHQZoAnYQ_AUICigB&biw=1304&bih=678) with white stripes down the middle fell into his lap from where it had been tucked behind his ear. After twenty furious, swear-filled minutes with Google and he was fairly sure it was a [gladiolus](http://www.flowermeaning.com/gladiolus-flower-meaning/). On a whim, he added the word ‘meaning’ to the search bar and stared.

“What the fuck.” Unsure if Damien just carried flowers around in his secret little pockets, unwilling to admit he was flattered, Robert downed what was left of his whiskey and leaned into the skid. “What. The. Fuck.” Flower demon. Christ.


End file.
